Faulted Clockwork
by CrankWindPencil
Summary: Endeavour Morse doesn't listen to 'Madame Butterfly' anymore.


**So I've seen like three of these. And they're great. And of course, I had to start writing for this fandom. Since I'm new and I don't know who Morse lost that was referred to in 'Fugue', I'm going to be a bit ambiguous here. Anywho, go forth and enjoy! Disclaimer- Nope.**

* * *

"Morse."

No reply.

"Morse."

Beat. Then,

_"Endeavour!"_

The young man flinches and stands, turning around to face Inspector Thursday, waiting in his doorway.

"Oh. Thursday," He says, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Wasn't expecting you. Come in."

Thursday closes the door and steps into the room, watching as Morse scrambles to his record player, shutting it off. He arches an eyebrow.

"Who's that, then?" He asks, motioning vaguely to the record.

"Hmm?" Morse blinks. "Oh, the record. Opera. No one you'd have heard of, I shouldn't think."

"Is it that Rosalind Stromming? Seem to remember you prattling on about her 'Madame Butterfly' for some time."

Morse freezes, his entire body tensing at Thursday's words.

"I-...no, it's not her. I don't- I don't listen to her. Not anymore." His voice is strained, something that catches the older man's attention right away. Thursday's gaze falls on Morse, and something isn't quite right with the constable. There's the new rigidness in his posture, yes, but there's something more as well, something else. He's paler than usual and just a tad thinner than Thursday would like. Something very much like gauntness hangs around his slight figure.

"Why not?" Thursday questions. Morse scoffs.

"Why would I, after I couldn't-" He breaks off, studying the floor beneath his feet. Thursday's eyebrows draw together as he watches Morse, the younger man's attention clearly not on the conversation at hand.

"After you couldn't what?" Thursday presses, voice gentle.

"She's _dead_, Inspector, because I wasn't good enough." Morse mutters, voice practically dripping with a self loathing Thursday hadn't thought possible.

He doesn't at all like it.

"She's dead because she killed a boy and an innocent girl, Morse." He counters.

Morse is silent.

"It's not your fault." Says Thursday. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Thursday..." Morse mummers, running both hands through his hair.

"Morse," Starts Thursday, his firm tone surprising even him. "No one could have saved her. Not you, not me, not Jakes. No one."

"I can't ever, though!" Morse snaps, glancing up to Thursday. "Don't you see? She saved me, but I couldn't save her, and there have been others, Thursday, that I've lost, that I couldn't help, because I'm never good enough and it always leads to this-"

_"Endeavour!"_

A look of shock flashes across Morse's features as Thursday's sharp voice cuts him off.

"No, I'm sorry, Thursday-" Morse manages to stammer out.

"Endeavour." Thursday says once more, softer this time around. "What in God's name are you on about?"

Morse hesitates. Opens his mouth to reply. Closes it again.

"I can't, Inspector. Please, I just...I can't."

Thursday presses his lips together into a thin white line. Heaven forbid he stop by Morse's place on his way home to check the constable's progress on a car theft report and leave without incident.

"...When was the last time you've slept?" He asks after a moment of terse silence. Morse breaks the eye contact he'd been holding with Thursday.

"Couple of days, I s'pose."

Thursday sighs. Bloody typical.

"And eaten?"

Morse shrugs.

"'Bout the same."

With a start, Thursday straightens his posture.

"Right," He begins. "Back to my place you come."

"I'm sorry?" Morse asks, startled.

"You're useless to me the way you are. You're coming home with me for a meal and some proper shut-eye." The Inspector elaborates.

"I can eat and sleep here just as well-"

"But you haven't." Thursday cuts across. "You won't have to talk to anyone, if that's what you're worried about. We've a spare room and the family'll soon enough be off to bed."

Morse fixes Thursday with a confused stare.

"I don't-"

"You do." Interrupts Thursday. "Don't argue, just come."

He tosses a key fob to Morse, who just barely catches it, his reflexes clearly impaired by a lack of sleep. Thursday frowns slightly.

"You're driving." The older man explained as Morse gives the fob a bewildered look. "Come on, now. I don't want to get home too late and you've still got to drop off Jakes, who _was_ driving me."

The young detective's attention switches from the fob to Thursday, and then back to the fob again, flustered.

"Hurry up!" He hears Thursday call.

Morse hurries.

* * *

**Just didn't think that Morse would get over the death of Rosalind quite so easily. So thanks for reading, and if you could leave a review, that would be great! We seem to be a small fandom, and must band together, right? Either way, thanks for sticking with this all the way through once more, have a fantastic day, and DFTBA!**


End file.
